Form and Shadow
by versifico
Summary: This is the woman I have become. The woman relegated to night, the woman wandering through her days and living for those few stolen moments when she can finally feel alive, feel release, feel passion, feel like someone she’s not.


He comes to my window at night, long after I should be asleep. But I am not asleep; I am waiting for him, eyes wide and unseeing, skin tingling in anticipation.

He doesn't knock anymore, and I'm glad; I prefer that we remain in silence as well as blindness, for then it makes it easier to pretend that it never happens.

Tonight my eyes begin to drift downward before he arrives, later than usual, the quiet 'swish' of the window enough to arouse me utterly to consciousness. He is graceful as he swings one leg, then another, into my room, never faltering in his balance, his hand steady as it silently pushes the window into place.

As I watch him, all form and shadow, I feel the familiar prickle of irony. I remember the night, not too long ago, when another familiar boy came through my window.

This boy, however, has had practice. Lots. Mostly with my window. The motions are like second nature to him and he is fluid, graceful, cat-like. I imagine that he is stalking me and I lay, still, not even breathing, wondering at the small rush of fear that makes small hairs rise on my neck.

I feel as if my sense of hearing has been heightened over the course of our late-night interludes; there are long stretches over which I forget how the tone of his skin or the sharp contours of his face look in the daylight.

But the sound of his whisper, the sound of him undoing the buckle of his belt, the sound our bodies make when they collide—those are sounds that have branded themselves into my memory, and I swear that I will hear them as I lay dying.

When he comes to me he is warm and smooth and naked; I am waiting for him in every sense of the word, naked beneath my sheets which have grown warm in the hours I have lain here. He slides beneath them with me, lowering himself over me, his mouth falling into the crook of my neck with a hot 'swoosh' of breath.

I hear myself moan; for a moment I am detached, floating, and I watch us from the dark corner of the room.

This is the woman I have become. The woman relegated to night, the woman wandering through her days and living for those few stolen moments when she can finally feel alive, feel release, feel passion, feel like someone she's not. Because the woman she's become, in reality, disgusts her.

When I return to myself I feel him against me, hard and insistent, ready. He does not kiss me on the mouth but instead traces his tongue hotly over my collarbone, up my neck, traces it over the contours of my ear. His breath is warm and impatient and loud, and I could almost come from the feel of it. He pauses to suck on the skin of my neck; he knows just where to stop, just how hard to tug before he bites gently. I moan against him and arch my back, finding him, filling the negative space between our bodies.

He smells like alcohol and sweat and woman's perfume, and I know that he's been with someone else tonight but I don't care, all I care about is here and now and the feel of him pressing into me.

I gasp when he slides into me and suddenly I feel so full, so fucking blissfully full, and I know that no one else has ever or will ever make me feel this way. I lose myself as he catches his rhythm, always fast, always hard, always _too much _but then isn't that what I want?

He slows only to pull my legs up and over his shoulders, bending me to fit him. I peer at him through the frame of my knees, pale and glowing in the dark. His eyes are closed and his mouth is set, his jaw tight, his hands wrapped around my thighs and clutching so tightly, so tightly that I know I my bruises will never fade.

He quickens his pace and oh god oh god oh god please! But I can't think and I close my eyes and I don't see him, I see my mother, and then she's gone and I see the other boy, reassuring me that I'm going to be ok. I find that I can't trust anyone these days, least of all myself.

Shamelessly, I reach down and touch myself and he opens his eyes when he feels me, watches me, his mouth smiling but his eyes hard and glittering. It isn't wrong, it's just a necessity, it's just need. I am human, I am a girl, I am imperfect. This is my new mantra as I circle my clit with my forefinger, muscles spasming, struggling to control as my body shakes with the force of his actions.

I feel myself coming and I feel almost violent, my arm tight and numb, and I stare at a place on his chest because I don't want to see the look on his face when I orgasm.

"Finn," I whisper as my body surrenders, my one moment of weakness, unacknowledged by both of us.

He finishes only a moment after me and I know that he was waiting; he always waits, although it's not about generosity.

It's about power. It's about the secret. It's about desperation. My desperation.

By the time I've rolled over he's up and getting dressed, his breathing already normal, and I don't turn my head to watch him leave.

I am comforted by the quiet sound of the window opening, and then closing and I can picture his retreating form as it stalks across the quad. Form and shadow.

I do not cry anymore.


End file.
